Archive of Our Own ^beta

“How much do you think he paid for that ass?”

From his perch at the decrepit conference room coffee machine, Clark Kent choked around his cup of Earl Gray, face flushing bright red at the implications of that statement. At his side, Hal Jordan, oblivious to Clark’s consternation, continued to gage the aforementioned ass—an ass which, notably, belonged none other to Bruce fucking Wayne.

Clark sputtered, dripping tea onto his suit while Hal tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes roaming over Wayne’s figure with the same amount of attention to detail he’d pay to a pin-up or a stripper.

“Hal!” Clark whispered hotly, aghast. “Be respectful! He’s our primary funder!”

“Yeah, and?” Hal shrugged. “I’d still tap that.”

“I thought you were straight?”

“I’m gay for Bruce Wayne. Most men are.”

Clark hid his face in his hands. “You’re horrible.”

“Please.” Hal snorted indignantly as he shoved his bento box into the microwave that sat adjacent to the coffee machine; the poor machine was still stained from Hawkgirl’s last attempt to microwave curry. “Sorry to offend you’re midwestern sensibilities, Boy Scout, but come on. Like you wouldn’t hit it if given the chance. Bruce Wayne is basically sex on a stick.”

Impossibly, Clark’s face seemed to burn hotter.

And the worst part is—Hal wasn’t exactly wrong.

Clark was, unfortunately, irrefutably attracted to Bruce Wayne.

They had meet a few times. Clark had run into him once or twice during working a story for the planet, more often than not with Lois in tow—but their interactions had predominantly been while Clark was in costume. The billionaire had a penchant for getting into precarious situations, and Clark had lost count years ago of the number of times he’d had to swan in to rescue pretty, gullible Bruce Wayne from one kidnapping attempt or another, because Batman, apparently, couldn’t be bothered to save his city’s resident damsel-in-distress himself. (He had a sneaking suspicion that the Bat simply didn’t want to put up with Wayne’s shit anymore then he already had to, and used his position in the League to pawn off rescue missions onto Clark—not that the Batman would ever deign to admit such a thing.)

But regardless of what suit Clark turned up in, whenever he found himself in the same room as Bruce Wayne, his heart began to jack knife in his chest and his palms got sweaty, and sometimes he even got honest-to-god butterflies in his stomach. Despite the staunch unprofessionalism of it all, Clark couldn’t deny that he found Bruce Wayne stupidly attractive and that he would totally, wholly, unequivocally hit it if given the chance.

Bruce Wayne was basically a perfect human specimen. Perfect hair, a perfect body, piercing blue eyes, legs that went for miles, hips begging to fit into Clark’s hands. He was gorgeous—the cover model, Baywatch, A-List-Actor type of gorgeous that let him get away with everything and made people dream about bending him over a table or making love to him on a white-sand beach in Fuji.

(Not that Clark thought about making love to him. Much.)

The only problem was—other then the fact that he technically owned Clark, being the League’s largest donor and all—Bruce Wayne just wasn’t Clark’s type beyond his physical appearance. He was a merciless flirt, an unapologetic alcoholic, and an otherwise mindless aristocrat in the throng of high society. Well meaning, sure, but everyone knew that behind that delectable face, there wasn’t much going on.

Bruce Wayne was just kind of an idiot.

(Sometimes, Clark found it hard to believe that he occupied the same city as Batman. Batman. Batman, who was brave and bold, cold and competent, kind of a dick but wickedly smart—and sometimes he’d get this smug little smirk whenever he did something particularly clever, and itmade Clark’s heart twist in a weird, uncontrollable way that fuckingburned.)

That wasn’t to say Bruce Wayne was a bad guy, per se. The opposite, in fact—despite his more superficial flaws, he appeared to be a genuinely good guy, something which Clark would be hard-pressed to find in the rest of the upper class.

During all their interactions, both in the suit and out, Bruce Wayne had talked often and at length about his darling children, humbly avoided comments on his gracious donations to charity, flirted to flatter and not necessarily seduce, and practiced good enough manners to put a European monarch to shame. He was, in essence, an altogether congenial type of man who lacked the intelligence to be discriminate, and as such was benevolent to both reporters and superheroes alike. It was sweet, in a way. Endearing.

But mostly he was pretty. Stunning. Exquisite. The pinnacle of the human form and also conveniently Clark’s type. The specific kind of beautiful that didn’t need to pay for a BBL, because it was obvious to anyone looking that his ass was indeed natural, despite Hal’s apparent belief that it wasn’t.

Speaking of Bruce Wayne’s ass—

While Hal punched away at the microwave, Clark took a careful sip of his Earl Gray and risked a peak at the billionaire. Bruce Wayne was lounging languidly in one of the rollie-chairs they kept stationed at the Monitor Womb’s computer desktop, dolling about in lazy spins, his ridiculously expensiveBatman-themed Air Jordan’s scraping across the hard aluminum floor. With his head tipped back, Clark could see the muscles of his jaw work and could trackthe lazy, elegant line of his throat.

Jesus. Clark needed to get it together. His heart was racing and heat was flooding his veins just by looking at the billionaire.

Bruce Wayne was being entertained by Diana (who at this point was basically the entirety of the Justice League’s PR department), as well as an exasperated looking John Stewart and Dinah Lance. They were all eyeing Wayne like he was a half-second away from spontaneously combusting or accidentally inciting a civil war in Markovia. Clark had seen the three of them emerge from battles with monsters three times their size and look less worn out; he felt sort of bad that they were the ones chosen to escort Gotham’s favorite billionaire around the Watchtower for his annual visit, but mostly he was glad it wasn’t him.

Given Wayne’s infamous propensity for near-fatal mishaps, the League had democratically voted (read: they’d played a round of nose-goes, which had immediately set Batman off about the values of democracy, or something—in all honesty, Clark had been paying more attention to his mouth then the words coming out of it) to assemble their most level-headed and even-kill members in a desperate bid to keep Wayne wrangled during his tour of the Watchtower, which he so graciously funded about 87% of. While Diana, Dinah, and John’s official job was to give Wayne a walk through of “his baby” (Wayne’s words, no one else’s), in actuality they were on babysitting duty. Their primary function was to ensure that Wayne didn’t do anything stupid, like accidentally blow up Botswana with the Watchtower’s space laser or cut power in every state east of Texas.

No one wanted a repeat of what had happened during Wayne’s visit back in ’09.

No one.

From what Clark had seen so far—he’d been keeping an eye on their progress with his ex-ray vision while he looked over some case files—he trio had been doing a pretty decent job of keeping Wayne indisposed. John had let the billionaire waste half an hour poking and prodding around at their interstellar telescope, pointedly keeping him away from the more dangerous aspects of the piece of alien tech, while Dinah had let him wander through the cafeteria and try the nine different flavors of space ice cream they kept stocked in the back, and now Diana was keeping him confined to the Womb, supervising the billionaire while he pressed a few designated buttons and asked questions about the League’s newer members. The tour was basically over—Clark knew they were just killing time, waiting for Wayne’s designated spacecraft to clear security so they could cart him back down to Earth and finally get him off their hands.

“Sup, Supes. Lantern.”

Clark was drawn from his thoughts as Barry Allen came to a sliding stop before them, mouth half-occupied by a bologna sandwich still mostly contained in a Jersey Mike’s wrapper. There was a backpack tossed over the speedster’s shoulders, indicating that he was fresh from Central and hadn’t yet stopped by his locker to drop off his things before he hit the lab. Barry had been spending a disproportionate amount of time on the Watchtower this week, Clark knew, as he’d been assigned by Batman to investigate the properties of a strange crystal that John Constantine had dropped on his doorstep for an unspecified reason (with Constantine, it could be hard to get a straight answer, and on principle magic was confusing as fuck). Barry had lamented the loss of his personal time on the League’s group chat, but Clark knew he was taking the job seriously—already, the speedster had pulled multiple all-nighters to try and get the report on the rock in Batman’s hands by Monday, when the next scheduled meeting was to take place.

“Hey, Barry,” Clark greeted amicable.

“What up, Allen,” Hal echoed. He bumped knuckles with the Speedster, then gestured with his chin over Barry’s bony shoulder. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

Barry went white. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“It can’t be.”

“It is.”

“Bruce Wayne?”

“In the flesh,” Hal confirmed, smirking.

Barry cast a faster-then-lightning look over his shoulder to confirm Wayne’s presence. Sometime in the last couple minutes, the billionaire had moved to his feet and was now bent uncomfortably close to John’s Lantern Ring, pushing a finger against the glowing tip with his mouth tilted open in awe. (Jeez, was that a sight Clark was going to remember tonight). Diana was trying in vain to coax him away, because John looked ready to die of embarrassment, while Dinah was failing to stifle a laugh in the collar of her leather jacket.

Once he got the affirmation that Wayne was, in fact, on the Watchtower, Barry turned back to them with a groan. He stuffed more sandwich in his mouth, looking miserable.

“Man, I hate that guy!” Barry cried emphatically.

“Don’t we all,” Hal grumbled.

“You remember the last time he was here, and he hit on that ambassador from Daxam? We had to fly all the way to their homeplanet to apologize to the Queen in person! I missed my birthday for that!”

“Barry, you’re birthday’s in March,” Clark pointed out.

“Semantics.” Barry waved him off. “Bro, the dude’s like a walking hazard sign. I can’t believe we let him up here.”

“It’s cause he pays our bills,” Hal supplied. “He also, like, spent half of his personal fortune on the Watchtower. That gives him pull with the Trinity.” He tilted his head towards Clark, then popped open his bento box and started poking around at the chicken and rice packed into one of the crevices. The Lantern added around a mouthful of poultry, “And let’s be honest, with an ass like that, that man can get in anywhere he wants.”

“What’s you’re deal with Bruce Wayne’s ass?” Clark demanded, feeling the tips of his ears go red. Barry gagged next to him.

“It’s a great ass!” Hal defended. “Look at it!”

Hal gestured ardently with his fork, and Clark pointedly did not look across the room to eye up Bruce Wayne’s infamously perfect ass, (though arguably it wasn’t as great as Batman’s, when his cape wasn’t in the way), which was now on perfect display, bent over John’s Ring as he was.

“It’s perfect,” Hal declared. “That, my friends, is a perfect ass.”

“I thought you said it was fake?”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s perfect. Nature doesn’t make an ass like that,” Hal said haughtily, like Clark was being the idiot here. He turned to Barry. “Come on, man. Back me up here.”

Barry fidgeted. “Uh—I’m refraining from comment.”

“Lame,” Hal drawled. “I remember you before you were monogamous. Much more fun.”

“Hey! Iris is—”

“Boo-hoo!”

“You’re such a dick, Hal.”

They continued to bicker like an old married couple and Clark rolled his eyes fondly. He finished off the last of his Earl Gray, then washed it down the drain and cleaned out this cup. He hung it on the rack next to Batman’s insulated travel mug (it read: World’s Greatest Detective Dad!, which Clark thought must have been an inside joke he didn’t know, or something) and with a pat on the back to Barry and a fist bump to Hal, made his way for the Zeta tubes. The sooner he could get back to Metropolis, the less likely it was that he’d get dragged into a conversation with Wayne—which Clark wasn’t sure he could survive with his dignity intact. He tended to blush the moment Wayne started to get flirty, which was a type of humiliation he couldn’t endure in front of Dinah, Diana, and John.

They were his colleagues, but they would never let him live it down.

As he approached the tube, however, the Zeta lit up. A moment later, Nightwing popped into existence, mid-slurp of his boba.

“Oh, hey, Superman!” Nightwing said, bouncing over. He launched into a cartwheel, somehow managing to keep the lid on his cup and also land effortlessly in front of Clark. “How’s it going?”

“Not too bad,” Clark said. “Just tryna get out of here before I get dragged over to meet Wayne.”

Nightwing’s head tilted. “Bruce Wayne’s here?”

“Yessir,” Clark confirmed solemnly.

“They let that guy up here?” Nightwing asked, cracking a grin. “Isn’t he a little bit of a…” He made a wish-wash motion with his hand, domino mask glinting mischievously. “You know, a ditz?”

“Oh, he is,” Clark confirmed. “But he funds the Watchtower and likes to come check up on us about once a year. We just let him get it out of his system and send him back to Earth once he’s done poking around.” Clark glanced over at Wayne, who was now occupied with Diana’s lasso. Clark looked away before he started imagining Bruce Wayne tied up with rope. “At least he isn’t bad on the eyes, you know?”

“Hm,” Nightwing hummed, smirk deepening. “That’s… fascinating,”

He took a long slurp of his boba and Clark couldn’t help but smile at the younger vigilante.

Nightwing was new to the League. He’d been inducted almost unanimously (Batman had been the only holdout for reasons he refused to explain—Clark was sure it had something to do with Nightwing’s city, Bludhaven, being close to Gotham), and had for the past eight months been a dutiful and enthusiastic member. He was still getting the hang of things, but already, he was an invaluable part of the team dynamic; even Batman liked him, loathe as he was to admit it. Despite the fact that the Dark Knight had at first neglected to accept him, he’d warmed up to Nightwing surprisingly fast.

Very fast. The first time he’d noticed Batman’s easy affinity towards Nightwing, he’d had to bite down the rough surge of jealousy that threatened to turn his eyes molten red. He told himself it was just Batman trying to look out for their newest member—he pretty much mentored all of the younger heroes, anyway—but sometimes he caught himself staring at Nightwing’s pretty face and coiled hair and lithe body, and wishing he could replicate whatever it was about Nightwing that kept Batman’s attention.

It was horrible of him to think, but Clark was only human. Kind of.

“So, you think Bruce Wayne’s hot?” Nightwing asked, wiggling a little bit suggestively. He seemed a little over eager, but, well, Nightwing could be a bit of a gossip when he wanted to be.

“Who doesn’t?” Clark said. “I mean, look at his—”

“Superman!”

Ah. Speak of the devil. Angel. Whatever.

Clark felt his face flame up as he slowly turned away from Nightwing, who apparently didn’t want to endure whatever this conversation was going to look like, because he snickered and slipped into the shadows, him and his boba gone in an instant.

Wayne, who unlike Nightwing was basically incapable of discretion, all but skipped towards him, his white grin flawless and just the right amount of excitable. Diana, John, and Dinah raced after him, eyes tracking his path to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally trip or run into a nearby fire extinguisher or send the Watchtower into lockdown—or all three, at once.

Clark couldn’t help but gulp as the billionaire approached. Rao, he was just too pretty to be of this earth. (Clark would know, he was from space.)

In his casual slacks and baby pink dress shirt, which had one too many buttons undone to be appropriate, Bruce Wayne looked like he’d been plucked off the cover of a trashy airport romance novel or a cover of Vogue. Like he’d been manifested solely by virtue of a porno and Clark’s will power. Hot damn.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark greeted affably, hoping he didn’t look as far gone as he was. “It’s good to see you again—and, uh, under much better circumstances this time.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Wayne said, batting his eyelashes but no doubt reminiscing on his last abduction by the Penguin. (That had been a fun experience for everyone except for Clark, who contrary to popular belief, did not like the cold. Or birds.) “I rather liked being tied up.”

Clark’s face flushed. “Uh-huh.”

Wayne’s grin deepened to something more sensual—which, up until that point, Clark had previously thought impossible, because everything that man did was already inherently sexy—and tilted a hip towards Clark, the fine fabric of his shirt pulling taunt against the muscles of his stomach and cinched waist with the movement. The hem slipped free of his too-tight trousers, revealing a slip of deliciously pale skin.

Clark blanched. Rao. He needed water.

“Next time you’re in Gotham, you should stop by,” Wayne said, a tad breathless. “My bedroom door is always open and I’d love to learn more about what makes you super.”

Dear God, that was horrible.

Clark was going to have a heart attack.

Luckily, he was saved from spontaneous cardiac arrest by the arrival of Diana, Dinah, and John, who’d finally caught up with Wayne. Diana patted Clark’s shoulder amicably as she approached.

“Superman, it’s good to see you,” she greeted. “Black Canary, Green Lantern, and I have spent the afternoon showing Mr. Wayne around the Watchtower.”

“He’s just about to go back,” John added. He sounded relived.

“Thank God,” Dinah muttered, her voice inaudible to anyone except Clark and his enhanced hearing.

“Oh, yes,” Wayne said, sighing dramatically. “It’s been a lovely tour, as always, but I’m afraid I really should be headed back to Gotham. I’m taking the kids out to dinner—have any of you ever heard of Applebee’s? According to my second-eldest, it’s a delicacy. I’m quite excited.”

He did look genuinely excited. It was cute.

Clark was decidedly not going to be the one to break it to Bruce Wayne that Applebee’s was about as far from a Michelin Star restaurant as Toyoko was from San Deigo.

“That sounds lovely, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said genuinely.

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll have a great time,” Dinah added.

Her tone suggested that the conversation was approaching it’s finality. Wayne, however, didn’t seem to pick up on it—for a man of high society, Clark was of the impression that the billionaire didn’t have the best social cues.

“I will, I will,” Wayne replied eagerly. “Richard’s going to be there! He’s driving in from Bludhaven—and, oh, what an awful city, really. It’s even worse than Gotham! I haven’t the slightest clue why he wants to live there of all places. And I hardly see him! I just miss him terribly, you know? My little birdie. Do you know if it’s possible to get empty-nest syndrome when you still have five kids living with you? Well, I think I have it anyway, and—oh! Speaking of, I went apartment shopping yesterday with Tim. Can you believe it? He wants an apartment. I said, Tim, my darling, sweetheart, why not a condo, or a townhome, or perhaps a villa off the French Rivera? See, when I was his age—”

“Mr. Wayne!” Dinah interrupted, apparently reaching her limit of Wayne’s babbling. Behind her, John was rubbing his temples excruciatingly. “Why don’t you tell me more about your children on the way to the hanger? Your ship has just been cleared by our security. Why don’t we get you back down to Gotham, yeah? Back to your kids?”

“Yes, thank you,” Wayne said wistfully. “Hm. My babies.”

“Yes, your babies,” Diana confirmed.

“You have a beautiful family, Mr. Wayne,” Clark offered, unable to resist the sirens’ calls of deep-seated midwestern niceties. And he had actually seen Wayne’s family, in the news, and they were a genetically gifted bunch if he’d ever seen one. Wayne really knew how to pick ‘em. “Your kids are all lovely.”

“They are, aren’t they? I have seven, you know.”

“We know, Mr. Wayne,” Diana replied.

The princess sent him a pained look that read, Because he won’t shut up about them.

Somehow Wayne had procured his wallet and was thumbing through the pocket-sized, laminated pictures of his children that he kept tucked inside the pristine Italian leather. He had more kids then credit cards, apparently.

“Look at them!” he said excitedly. “They’re just perfect. Here’s Cassie, and there’s Steph—oh, I could show you baby pictures all day!”

His kids were all, presumably, adopted, so how in the hell Wayne had managed to procure baby pictures, Clark had no idea. But then again, this was the same man who had erected an earth-orbiting satellite with an attachable space laser and high-speed internet. He probably had his ways.

“So perfect, each of them,” Wayne announced. “Maybe next time I should bring them with me—”

“This isn’t really a great place for kids, Mr. Wayne. But I’m sure you can tell them all about it on your way back to Gotham. Now, if you could follow me, please,” John interrupted placatingly, gently taking an affronted Wayne (he apparently really wanted to show them those baby pictures) by the arm and escorting him towards the elevator door, Dinah and Diana in tow. The fact that it took three of the World’s Finest heroes to corral a singular wayward billionaire probably said more about the League then it did about Wayne.

“Bye, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said pathetically as Wayne was all but dragged away. “Have a safe flight, sir.”

“Yes, yes! Au revoir, Superman!” Wayne called out. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon!”

Clark didn’t doubt that. The thought of having to disentangle Wayne from another ticking-time bomb or whisking him out of a fiery helicopter or just picking him up before he could try to whack the Penguin with a glass of champagne made Clark’s head pound. But at least Wayne was hot, and as a bonus, he loved his kids. Clark could put up with his bumbling if it meant saving his life again—and, maybe, getting to touch his ass. Just a little.

“Oh!” Wayne said suddenly, as the elevator doors rolled open, and Clark only picked it up because his senses were still entuned to the man. “I’m so sorry, Miss Wonder Woman, but I think I dropped my—”

BAM!

The floor beneath them jerked so fast that it sent even those with superpowers flying towards the ground. Around them, the Watchtower groaned, both exterior and interior lights flickering from their normal florescent glow to something darker and redder—which meant they were now running on their back-up generator, which meant that whatever had just hit the satellite was something big.

Fuck. Of all the days.

Batman was going to lose his shit.

Clark lurched to his feet, instincts settling in (save civilians), cape slithering against his boots as he rocketed across the room towards Bruce Wayne. The billionaire was a puddle on the ground, braced in a surprisingly precise impact position—hands curled around the back of his head, arms protecting his delicate neck, knees brought up to protect his heart. Clark wasted no time in scooping him up and holding him protectively against the symbol on his chest. Annoying and airheaded as Wayne could be, Clark didn’t want him dead. He also didn’t want Batman to rip him a new one for letting Wayne get injured. Gothamites, he knew, were notoriously protective of Bruce Wayne—and even though Batman clearly didn’t like him all that much, Clark had no doubt he’d tear Clark to shreds if Wayne walked out with so much as a stubbed toe.

“Stay calm, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, bracketing Wayne against him “Are you hurt?”

“I—what? No!” Wayne looked around, terror in his features. “What the hell is going on?!”

“I’m not sure, sir. But we’re going to get you back to Earth as soon as possible. Just try to remain calm.”

“What the fuck!” Wayne shrieked. “What the fuck!”

Well. He clearly wasn’t going to remain calm, then.

Clark sat Wayne back on the floor, keeping hands on his hips to brace him in case the Watchtower shook again. Nearby, the others pried themselves off the floor. The only person Clark didn’t see was Barry—but, presumably, he’d already left for the lab, and given the lack of the accompanying Green Lantern, had probably taken Hal with him.

Diana, as always, got her wits about her first. She unspooled her lasso, slipping into a battle-ready stance as she put a finger to her ear to activate her comm.

“This is Wonder Woman!” she announced. “Someone tell me what just hit us!”

There was a burst of static, both in Diana’s comm and Clark’s own in-ear, before Clark heard Martian Manhunter’s rush down the line, saying, “Multiple portals have opened near and inside of the laboratory! At least four-dozen unidentified creatures are slipping through as we speak!”

As if to punctate his remark, the Watchtower shook again. Clark pulled a screeching Wayne to his chest and floated to keep them both from wobbling on the ground.

There was a distant rumble of noise, something between a growl and a roar, and suddenly, Clark saw a massive, glowing, pink creature shoot past the Monitor Womb window, with what appeared to be Red Tornado and Power Girl in hot pursuit. Against his chest, Wayne made a choking noise.

“Oh my god!” he gasped. “I’m going to die!”

“You’re not going to die, Mr. Wayne,” Clark assured him. “Please try to remain calm.”

“Stop telling me to be calm!” Bruce Wayne screamed.

Clark winced. Then, there was another burst of static in his ear, and Barry’s familiar voice was heard.

“This one’s on me, guys!” the speedster said apologetically. “You know that rock that John Constantine gave Batman? The one I’m investigating? Well, apparently it doesn’t respond very well to cocaine, so—”

“Who the fuck injects a magic rock with cocaine?” Wayne muttered, which answers the question of whether he could hear the murmuring in Clark’s comm or not.

“Don’t worry about it, Flash,” Wonder Woman said, both on the comm and next to Clark. “Let’s just focus on getting this under control.”

From the comm channel, Martian Manhunter suddenly added, “They have now breached the Watchtower’s hull, as well as the docking bay! I repeat, they have breached. They are inside. Is anyone nearby to stop their advance?”

“I’m here!” chirped a new voice—Nightwing. He was grunting, clearly strained to talk while engaging with… whatever the hell these creatures were. “These are some tough fellas, lemme tell you! I think they’re, like, space demons or something. Can’t tell.”

“Nightwing, I’m sending you reinforcements,” Diana said.

“Thanks! Oh, oops.”

“Nightwing?” Diana asked urgently. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but I think I’m getting abducted! Don’t worry about it. I have it under control. Tell Batman—”

His line cut off sharply, sending a scratchy, static noise that scraped against Clark’s ear, making him wince. When the pain receded, he looked up to Wayne, finding him shell-shocked. Gently, Clark let him go from the cradle of his arms and patted the billionaire’s back awkwardly, trying to be consoling.

“Mr. Wayne, sir, I’m afraid gonna have to retract my earlier statement,” he said regretfully. “You might die.”

“Superman!” Dinah scolded. She was leaning against John, adjusting her panty-hoes and slipping off her heels, very obviously preparing for heavy fighting. “Don’t say that! You’re scaring him!”

“Well I can’t lie to him!” Clark protested.

“I’m going to die,” Wayne echoed.

“No one is going to die,” Diana interjected, shooting Clark a scathing look that read we need to talk about your bedside manner. She then turned to face the gather group, effortlessly taking control of the situation as she began to list out orders. “Green Lantern, you and I will go help the Flash. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the extra set of hands. Black Canary, prepare to engage. I’m sending you to the docking bay in place of Nightwing while he’s… incapacitated. Try to stop as many as you can from getting any further inside the Watchtower. And you, Superman—” Diana shoved a finger towards her face. “You’re main job is to keep Mr. Wayne safe. We don’t need any dead civilians.”

“Dead civilians,” Wayne echoed in a murmur, blue eyes wide with fright. “Dead…”

“Batman will kill you if you let him die,” Dinah exclaimed, jutting her thumb towards Wayne as she made her way towards the emergency stairwell. “He’s the Prince to Gotham’s Knight, remember?”

“Actually, my children say I’m a short king,” Mr. Wayne corrected lamely.

“It is as Black Canary said,” Wonder Woman agreed solemnly, ignoring Wayne. “Superman, you must stay with Mr. Wayne. We shall fight these belligerent space demons without you.”

“Wait a damn minute—” Clark protested, holding up a hand.

He liked Wayne, thought he was, like, super hot and all—but that didn’t mean he wanted to get stuck with him for Rao knew how long while everyone else got to fight interdimensional alien-demon-things, or whatever. And no way did Clark want to run the risk of incurring the Batman’s wrath if Wayne got injured, whether it be Clark’s fault or not.

“I should be out there,” Clark objected weakly. “Can’t one of you…?”

“Hell no,” Black Canary said, then took off down the hall.

“Yeah, this is on you, Supes,” John echoed before similarly launching himself away from Wayne as fast as physically possible. “Good luck, man!”

Clark felt defeated.

Next to him, Diana sighed. She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, grimacing slightly as she looked over at Wayne. The billionaire was staring dazedly out the window, watching as the Justice League took on a horde of strip-club pink, demon-aliens beyond the pain of glass. There was a sharpness in his eyes, too—weird, but Clark choked that up to a weird mix of fear and adrenaline.

“Just take him somewhere secure,” Diana said, already moving to follow the same path that John had previously taken that led to the sixth floor, where the lab—and presumably the heart of all the action, was taking place. “I shall see you soon.”

With one parting smile, she turned the corner and left, leaving Clark Kent alone with Bruce Wayne.

Clark sighed, long and heavy. Great. Just great.

“Okay, Mr. Wayne,” he said, clapping his hands together with vague enthusiasm. “Let’s get you somewhere with less windows, alright?”

Wayne blanched, seemingly not fond of the idea of potentially getting sucked into space, and hurried after Clark as he took off towards the Trophy room. It was one of the few places in the Watchtower that had neither windows nor anything remarkable flammable, and with only one entry and exit, it was pretty defensible.

They scurried down the hallways, the red warning lights flashing on and off in a steady, familiar beat. Wayne was surprisingly agile on his feet, keeping pace with Clark and turning easily, almost as if he knew where they were going. Normally, a civilian knowing the layout of the Watchtower would be cause for concern (Batman took Tower security very seriously, he’d lectured Clark about it last Friday when he’d got caught using the Zeta to Door Dash Starbucks for his shift on the Monitor), but given that Wayne had overseen the construction of the Watchtower and was fresh from a tour, Clark pushed his reservations to the side. He wasn’t that paranoid.

He wasn’t like Batman.

And besides, Wayne seemed a little too empty-headed to be a nefarious supervillain—Clark was fairly sure that his only goals in life were to flirt with anything that moved and take his kids to Applebee’s. And, hey, good for him. Man had his priorities straight. Clark could respect that.

“This way,” Clark guided. “We’re almost there.”

He took Wayne by the elbow for the last few turns, before coming to an abrupt stop at the Trophy room door. He fished for his keycard and then swiped it through the reader, and the door, already cued into his biometrics, slid to the side. In the distance, Clark could hear one of the aliens roaring, so he ushered Wayne in quickly, lest shit hit the fan. When the door slid shut behind them, Clark engaged the electromagnetic lock for added protection, then slumped down against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief.

Wayne, on the other hand, looked far from relived. He was curled up in fetal position next to the glass case containing a dusty set of parademon armor, rocking back and forth and muttering something about missing his dinner reservation.

Clark watched him freak out for a solid five minutes before deciding to take pity. He shoved himself away from the wall and went over to sit next to Wayne; the bud of attraction was still there, but considering how freaked out Wayne was and how irate Clark was to get pawned off on babysitting duty instead of getting to fight alien-demons, it didn’t blossom into anything. He bumped his knee against the billionaire’s, aiming for comforting, and while it wasn’t the most inspired idea, the contact got Wayne to stop rocking.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Mr. Wayne,” Clark promised. He ran through his repertoire of small talk, the things he said to scared kids to try and calm them down and engage them in conversation. “Do you, uh, have a favorite movie?”

“Sixteen Candles,” Wayne muttered.

“That’s a good one!” Clark said encouragingly. “Why’s it your favorite?”

“It’s the only movie all my kids can agree on watching.” His face crumbled. “My kids…”

Clark shushed him and rubbed his back while Wayne shoved his face into his knees.

“You’re kids are a-okay, Mr. Wayne. Nice and safe back on Earth.”

“Not Dick,” Wayne mumbled. At Clark’s confused look, he cleared his throat awkwardly, looking slightly panicked. He quickly amended, “Not, um—I’m thinking about your dick!”

Before Clark could even digest that, Wayne threw himself at Clark, hands coming up to curl into his hair. Clark squeaked in surprise as Wayne’s lips—soft, gentle, a little chapped from the dingy, recycled air of the space station—involved his. The billionaire all but shoved his tongue down Clark’s throat, fingers running down the side of his neck, snagging on the alien fabric of his cape—and it was hot hot hot and so so good.

Wayne parted from him, eyes dipping down to Clark’s neck.

“Can I borrow your underpants for ten minutes?” he asked breathlessly, hand shifting downwards.

Clark stuttered. Damn, Wayne was the type to quote movies in the middle of sex? Was he just a perfect human specimen?

He wondered—did Batman quote movies during sex?

Goddamn it. He has it bad. He needed to stop thinking about Batman.

In the brief moment where Wayne wasn’t touching him, all of Clark’s clarity came rushing back, and he realized he had absolutely let this situation get out of control. Clark was making out with Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was quoting Sixteen Candles while they made out. Clark liked that Bruce Wayne was quoting Sixteen Candles while they made out.

This was wildly out of hand.

Clark scooted away, face red. “Mr. Wayne! We can’t!”

“What?” Wayne demanded, looking miffed. “Am I not your type?”

“No—I mean, yes! You are, you definitely, definingly, are—but that’s not—”

Wayne huffed, turning away from Clark, almost pouting.

“I want a serious girlfriend,” he muttered. “Someone I can love, that’s gonna love me back. Is that psycho?” He turned to glare at Clark. “Is that psycho, Superman?”

“Mr. Wayne, please don’t quote Sixteen Candles right now.”

“I guess it is. I can’t decide what’s worse,” Wayne continued. “That I’m going to die, or that Superman won’t fuck me before I do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I won’t fuck you,” Clark interjected quickly. He cringed back at his own use of language. “Uh, I mean, let’s table that discussion for later, okay? I’m sure this is very scary—”

“I’m not scared,” Wayne said petulantly.

“Oh, well, I mean, earlier you seemed a little concerned about dying, so I just thought—”

“Dying,” Wayne repeated, eyes going wide. “Oh, no. I forgot about that part.”

“Erm, well…” Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “It’ll probably be fine.”

“Probably?”

“Well, I’ve never fought alien-demons before, so—”

“Jesus Christ!” Wayne lamented. In a burst of movement, he threw himself at Clark’s chest, fingers curling into the crest on his suit and shaking him hard. “I can’t die, Superman! I have to pay off my kids 509 plans and my butler’s 401k! Not that any of them want to go to college, and Alfred’s already a multimillionaire but—oh, God!” Wayne looked on the verge of tears. “I’m never going to see my grandkids again!”

Clark blinked. That was news. “You have grandkids?”

“Not yet,” he said miserably. “But I’m sure I’m going to, one day!” He sniffed. “I bought these adorable Channel pajamas and this darling Hermes baby blanket, too…”

Clark didn’t really know how to respond to that. So, he opted for an awkward half-hug, back-pat while Wayne continued to lament the loss of all the high-fashion onesies and Prada swimwear he’d bought for his nonexistent grandchildren.

“You’ll get back to your kids, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said. “And your, uh, future grandkids, too.”

Wayne fiddled with his shoelaces.

“Bruce,” he said, after a moment. “If I’m going to die up here, you should probably call me Bruce.”

Clark nearly responded, but suddenly Wayne—Bruce froze in his arms. The billionaire’s sudden stillness, the abrupt leveling-out of his heartbeat, and his pitched gaze, set thoroughly on the Trophy room door, sent the same tingle of familiarity in Clark’s mind. Frowning at the feeling, Clark leaned towards him, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Mr. Wayne?” Clark asked. “Uh, I mean, Bruce. What’s—?”

Bruce’s breath hitched. Then—

“Get down!” he shouted.

He yanked Clark to the ground, pulling his cape over the two of them as the room suddenly exploded around them. Through the dust, Clark watched as the door was pried away by a creature with long, thick claws and a gaping maw. It’s neon-pink, hairy skin and rows of sharp teeth looked especially menacing in the red light—but, scariest of all, it was headed right towards them.

Clark swore in Kryptoian and launched into action. He shoved Wayne to the side with a burst of super-strength to ensure that he was out of the line of fire, then darted towards the alien-demon-thiny, cape billowing. He struck it head on, sending the creature crashing into a display case chock-full of samples of trick-arrows that Oliver Queen had left at the exhibition.

Mindful of his surroundings and quicker then lightning, Clark punched the creature again—with just enough force to crack it’s neck and leave it a disgruntled mess along the tile floor.

Once he was done, Clark swiftly reached out with his senses, only to find nothing. He frowned. The demon-aliens-whatever-they-were, must have been made of some sort of lead compound, or conversely were made of pure magic. Either way, it was clear that they undetectable to his senses—which would explain how Bruce had heard it coming whilst Clark hadn’t.

Shit. That was not a revelation that inspired much confidence. And—

Wait. Where was Bruce?

Double shit.

Clark scanned the room in a panic. He located Bruce quickly enough, finding him taking cover behind a dismantled Amazo. He darted towards the billionaire, intending to pick him up and whisk him off towards a more secure location (because clearly the Trophy room was a no-go), but before he could, Bruce reached out and slapped him across the face.

Clark froze.

Did he seriously just get… bitch slapped?

Did he just get bitch slapped… by Bruce Wayne?

“Are you out of your mind?!” Bruce shouted. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Excuse me?” Clark demanded, his senses coming back to him.

Bruce scowled, and—damn, why did that look familiar? Were part of these creatures’ powers inducing déjà vu?

“We’re on a space ship, idiot!” Bruce admonished. “If you’d had blown a hole through the wall, I would’ve been dead already! You need to be more careful!”

He wasn’t wrong, per se.

But.

Clark scowled. Any lingering attraction he’d felt for this man rushed way. He had had it with Bruce Wayne. After he’d done all of this—listen to him talk about his kids and imaginary grandkids, comforting him, punching a goddamn neon-pink alien for him—this rich, upper-class, white guy was just going to be an asshole to him?

Clark’s lower-middle-classism would not allow that to stand.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I just saved your life!” Clark snapped, the words exploding from his mouth. “A thank you would be nice!”

Bruce scoffed. “Thank you? You want me to thank you?”

“Yes!”

“You almost got me killed!”

 “You seem alive to me, asshole.”

“Asshole? That’s creative.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

Bruce threw his hands up. “Don’t quote Sixteen Candles at me!”

“Watch me!” Clark snapped. “Ugh, you’re such a pain. I don’t see you fighting any demons. Aliens. Whatever—you know what I mean!”

For whatever reason, that made Bruce Wayne still.

And then, it was like a switch.

Off, then on.

His stance straightened into something almost battle-like and his blue eyes sharpened, narrowing in on Clark in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. It was like he was seeing through him, like he knew everything there was to know about him. It sort of reminded him of—

“You know what?” Bruce said. “Fuck it.”

Then he ran away.

He ran.

Bruce Wayne was uncannily fast for a man wearing uncreased limited-edition Air Jordan’s and a too-tight pair of slacks. He was already out the door by the time Clark’s brain caught up with him and he realized that Bruce had bolted.

“Wait!” Clark shouted, taking off after the billionaire. “Mr. Wayne! Bruce! Slow down! It’s too dangerous!”

His heart was pounding in his ears. Clark started to panic as he chased Bruce down the Watchtower’s hallways.

Had Bruce Wayne cracked? Was he suicidal? Had Clark literally drove a man to insanity, because he wouldn’t fuck him while there were demon-alien creatures trying to kill them?

Clark felt anxiety surge through his chest. Bruce was running and was going to get eaten by an alien that looked like it was made of strobe lighting and it was going to be bloody and awful and—

And Batman was never going to forgive him.

For whatever reason, the thought of the Bat’s disapproving face (cowl) shook Clark’s brain into clarity. He shot towards Bruce, grabbing him by the waist just before he turned a corner, and slammed him up against the wall—and not in a sexy way.

“Let me go,” Bruce said. His voice was pitched low.

“No,” Clark said. “You’re a flight risk. Sir, I can’t allow you to—”

“Kal-El,” Bruce interrupted. “Let. Me. Go.”

Pause.

What the fuck.

What the fuck?

What the fuck!

Clark’s mouth dropped. “How did you…?”

How did he…?

While Clark wrestled with the knowledge that Bruce Wayne knew his Kryptoian name—the name he had maybe told four people in his whole entire life, the name that his dead parents had given him before his home planet exploded into a trillion pieces—the aforementioned billionaire slipped from his grasp and marched down the hall, coming to a stop in front of a nondescript door.

“Watchtower!” Bruce barked in that same low, gravelly baritone he’d used earlier. “Clearance, A-02. Manual override, equipment reserve B2-00894.”

“Recognized,” replied the silky-smooth voice of the Watchtower’s AI system. “Manual override engaged.”

Clark stood, slack-jawed, as the door slid away. Before he could fully understand what the fuck was happening, Bruce had rolled up his sleeves, buckled a staunchly recognizable golden utility belt over his Armani slacks, and was marching towards Clark with a serious look in his eye.

“Oh my God,” Clark muttered. “Oh. My. God.”

Bruce snapped his fingers in front of Clark’s face. “Get it together, Kal. While I was sticking my tongue down your throat, Nightwing sent me information he was able to gather about the demons—yes, they’re demons—after the they abducted him. Oh, he’s fine, now,” Bruce added, seeing Clark’s aghast face, “and he can handle himself, anyway. We—we need to make it to the laboratory. While you were assaulting me, I figured out how to close the portal. Do you understand?”

Clark did not understand. He was pretty sure his brain was going to explode. Maybe it already had.

“I—you’re, fuck.” Clark was shaking. “Oh my God, what the hell, what the fuck is happening right now—”

“Kal-El!” Bruce barked. “Calm down!”

Clark stuttered. “You’re…”

“I’m Batman,” Batman confirmed.

“Oh my God.”

“Let’s move,” Bruce—Batman ordered.

Then, he disappeared, completely silent in his Air Jordan’s.

Clark allowed himself one, two, three moments of stunned silence, before deciding that it was in his best interests to kill demons now and worry about everything else (Bruce Wayne = Batman?) later.

He tracked Bruce’s heart rate and found him sprinting in the direction of the laboratory. They cut sideways into one of the stairwells, wherein Clark’s instincts took over, and he snatched Bruce up by the waist. They shot up three stories, wind whipping against them. Once they were on the right level, Clark dropped the billionaire off on the ground, followed him as he burst through the door leading into the Watchtower’s sprawling laboratory—and just like that they were in the center of the madness.

Barry was zipping around frantically, a red stroke of lightening as he dodged a horde of neon-pink creatures while moving all the explosives and corrosive substances out of the way. Hal and John were working in tandem, using matching green sledgehammers manifested by their rings to take out as many as possible. Diana was going to town with her sword, a battle cry ringing from her lips. But for each demon the heroes took down, another stormed in from one of the dozens of pink-colored portals that had opened up both inside the laboratory, as well as on the other side of the large glass windows, in deep space.

It was truly a shit show.

A quick glance out the aforementioned windows revealed that the space-proof and flying-abled members of the League were similarly deep into battle against the barrage of the pink, furry, demonic creatures. Clark had the presence of mind to think about how they sort of looked like they were beating up a bunch of off-brand Strawberry Shortcake dolls, which was way less funny then it should have been in theory.

Luckily though, none of the Leaguers had allowed the aliens to breach the windows, so the glass was still perfectly intact.

“Supes! Thank God you’re here!” John crowed as he performed a textbook elbow drop on a particularly large alien. His eyes caught on Bruce and confusion marred his face beneath his mask. “Wait, is that—?!”

He was cut off when a demon Diana had been fighting suddenly veered to the left and tackled him to the ground. John was submerged beneath a pile of fluff demons almost instantaneously.

“John!” Hal shouted. He launched himself after his fellow Lantern. “Hang in there, pookie! I’m coming after ya!”

Hal disappeared, too. But, well, Clark figured that wasn’t his main problem. They’d probably be fine.

“Superman!” Bruce shouted, drawing Clark’s attention back to the man standing at his side. “Watch my six!”

After Clark’s confirming nod, the billionaire wasted no time in diving into the fray, expertly sliding over a table and narrowly avoiding a microscope that flew near his head. A demon approached, which he round-house kicked before it could bite his hand off.

For half a second, Clark just stood there, utterly entranced—because, hot damn, how was it that a man that pretty could also fuck up demons so good?

The rush of attraction he’d felt slip away during his and Bruce’s earlier fight came back with a vengeance, and it immediately complied with his preexisting love—ahem, admiration for the Batman.

The great force of Clark’s feelings nearly knocked him on his back. But then he remembered that Bruce Wayne—Batman—was painfully human, and right now, he needed Clark to protect him, not stare at his ass and dream about taking him on romantic vacations to Fuji. (That that he has thought about that. Much)

Clark darted towards one of the aliens closing in on Batman. He grabbed it by the neck and hauled it away, opening space for Batman to dive through as he made his way towards the glowing pink stone in the middle of the lab. Clark weaved through the aliens’ pink claws and avoided getting caught in their toothy mouth.

For a few long minutes, he was Superman. He was pushing and shoving and beating, keeping Batman safe.

Abruptly, a demon managed to nip him by the cape and jerk him backwards. Clark expertly flipped, shoved his feet into the demon’s eyes, and used his laser-vision to subdue it. As he clamored away from the creature, he saw Batman produce a strange device from his belt and leap towards the crystal. The look on his face told Clark that Batman knew his plan was going to work, but the tension in his muscles, the strain of his arms as he lunged towards the glowing rock, also conveyed that whatever Batman was about to do was probably going to end in an explosion.

It was mildly concerning that Clark was able to detect an impending explosion solely from Batman’s body language, but whatever. Twenty-years of being in love teaming up did that to a man.

All at once, Batman shoved the device into the crystal, and it whined, high and annoying.

Clark shoved an a demon trying to bite his crotch off of him.

“Get down!” he shouted.

He didn’t wait to see if the others followed his direction. Clark launched himself towards Batman, putting his body between Bruce’s mortal flesh and the massive shockwave that ripped from the crystal. There was a bright burst of light, too, and Clark wrenched his eyes shut with a wince. Beneath him, Bruce grunted and Clark tightened his hold.

A moment passed. The light grew brighter. And then—

Whoosh.

As quickly as it had come, the light dissipated, and the shockwave seemed to reverse, bringing with it the dozens of demons. They tumbled into the portals—a quick glance through the windows confirmed that the same thing was happening in space—and once they were all sucked in, with one final, heaving wail, the portals snapped shut.

In his peripheral, Clark saw the crystal dim and then turn a dull blue color. Defeated.

Clark breathed a sigh of relief.

“You did it,” he whispered into Batman’s ear, in awe, tension seeping from his shoulders.

“Of course I did,” Bruce sniffed. “I’m Batman.”

Clark blinked, the reality of all that had happened suddenly clicking in his mind.

Holy fuck. Bruce Wayne was the Batman.

Bruce fucking Wayne was Batman.

Fuck it. Clark was in love.

“Yeah,” he muttered dizzily. “I guess you are.”

Batman extracted himself from Clark’s arms, dusting off the sleeves of his tailored shirt and fixing his collar. “I am going to murder, John Constantine,” the billionaire seethed. “This is the last time he brings me magical artefacts. If I have to fight another demon for that son of a bitch…”

Across the room, the other heroes began to pick themselves up—John and Hal emerged from a puddle of alien guts, while Barry dropped from the vent he’d been half-stuck in and Diana shoved aside a lab table that had fallen on top of her. The princess clamored to her feet, taking in the room, before her gaze landed on Clark, then Bruce.

Her eyes went wide. “Mr. Wayne! Are you… Oh.”

Clark watched as her eyes took in the grappling hook in Wayne’s hands, the belt slung around his hips, and the hard line of his jaw (and those damn Air Jordan’s). Her eyes went wide and all around her, everyone else seemed to come to the same conclusion as she did.

A few startled gasps rang out. Hal looked like he was contemplating ejecting himself into space, Barry was slack-jawed, and John promptly passed out from shock. Or maybe blood loss.

Diana stared at Wayne. “You’re…”

“He’s Batman,” Clark supplied.

“I’m Batman,” Batman confirmed.

“This is the weirdest fucking thing that has ever happened to me,” Barry announced. “And I was struck by lightning. Twice.”

“You also put cocaine inside a magic crystal,” Batman snapped. “That was weird, don’t you think, Barry?”

Properly chastised, Barry shrunk back and meekly ducked behind an overturned table.

Bruce huffed, then turned to Diana, who was still watching him, shock on her face. “I won’t apologize for my lack of transparency with my identity, Diana. I had my reasons.”

Diana seemed to be in a daze. “I can not even…”

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by Hal, who had recovered from his stupor. The Lantern proceeded to launch himself at Bruce, drop before him, and grab his hand, kissing his knuckles reverently.

“I swear to God, I will never say your ass is fake again,” Hal said, shaking. “Never again. I promise. That thing is definitely real.”

Bruce looked distantly uncomfortable. “Right.”

Barry, miraculously recovered from the punishment he’d received, darted forward in a red blur and pulled Hal to his feet, depositing him in Diana’s waiting arms. There was an odd look on his face, contemplating, as he turned to the billionaire and asked, “So, you’re actually the Batman?”

Bruce didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“And you’re also Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, accident-prone philanthropist?”

Bruce’s eye twitched at that. “Yes.”

“The same Bruce Wayne that has, like, ten kids?”

“Seven. But yes.”

“Okay,” Barry said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “So, now I’m thinking about Wally—you know, Kid Flash—and I’m also thinking about all of those other underaged vigilantes in Gotham, who Wally’s friends with, who are all basically the same age as your kids—”

“No comment,” Bruce interrupted.

“But—“

“No. Comment.”

Diana stepped in, clearing her throat and settling a hand on Barry’s shoulder to silence him as she smiled down at Bruce.

“We are honored you decided to reveal your identity to us, Batman,” she said. She held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, face-to-face.”

Bruce took her hand easily and they shook.

“Bruce,” he said after a moment. “We’ve known each other for twenty years, Diana. Call me Bruce.”

She smiled. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“And I’m Clark,” Clark butted in, holding up a hand to identify himself. Wonder Woman and Batman turned to look at him and he shrunk beneath their amused gaze. “I—uh, I’m guessing you both already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You are not very subtle,” Diana said, laughing. “I saw you texting Ms. Lois Lane from the Montier Womb’s mainframe and caught sight of your name on the email address.”

“Oh. Well.” Clark cleared his throat. So much for his not-that-secret identity. “That would explain why my AT&T bill was so high last month…”

“Switch to Verizon,” Barry suggested.

”Ew, you use Verizon?” Hal asked.

“They’ve got decent deals!”

“Allen, you—“

They contained to bicker, and Bruce turned to Clark with a serious expression.

“I ran your face through my Computer’s facial recognition software. I’ve known your identity for the better part of two decades,” Bruce explained, mirroring Diana’s explanation. His dark blue eyes dipped down and up, and—oh God, was he checking him out? Was that what was happening? “But, perhaps now that our identities are less of a concern, you could tell me more about yourself. Preferably somewhere less… sterile,” he gestured around the Watchtower, “and more comfortable. Dinner, perhaps? And a movie? Might I suggest Sixteen Candles?”

Clark blanched. And either he had swallowed some weird demon residue, or his stomach was in knots.

“I’d like that,” he squeaked out.

“And, of course,” Bruce said, “continue our conversation from earlier.”

Conversation—?

Oh.

Hot damn!

Clark went so red everyone probably thought he was about to shoot laser beams out of his nose. Because—Bruce’s body, taunt against his, and his mouth, Rao his mouth—

“Yeah,” he whispers. “That would, uh, be great.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Diana smirking at them, and awkwardly gestured at her. He cleared his throat and out of pure curtesy, offered, “Diana, you’re more than welcome to—”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted, holding up her hands. “I have lived for centuries, but the twenty years I have spent watching you two pine after each other have been the longest. Please go without me.” Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “And enjoy yourselves.”

Clark somehow went redder. Nearby, he saw Barry and Hal snickering and pretending to make out with themselves.

Bruce, looking smug, opened his mouth as if he was about to say something—but was swiftly cut off when the doors to the lab slammed open. All at once, a horde of Kelvar-wearing and weapon-wielding vigilantes that Clark only vaguely recognized from the Gotham news cycle stumbled onto the scene, all of them lead by one exhausted-looking Nightwing, who was covered in neon-pink demon guts and looked like he’d just met God.

“Nightwing?” Hal demanded. Barry yelped at their sudden appearance and jumped next to Hal, grabbing his hand and hiding behind him. “I thought you gotten abducted by the aliens, dude!”

“Nah, they were chill. I’m here to help!” Nightwing announced breathlessly, waving them off. He was panting hard and quickly leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees while gasping for air. “Whoo, I need to hit the Stair Master! Those demons really like their stairs, holy shit—!”

“Language,” Bruce corrected.

Nightwing sprung up like he’d been electrocuted. “Oh, Mr. Wayne! I totally forgot, I’m here to rescue you!” He paused. “On behalf of Batman,” he added, like it was an afterthought.

The purple-clad vigilante standing behind him cleared her throat pointedly. Nightwing glanced at her before sheepishly rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I meant, we’re here to rescue you!” he amended. “On behalf of Batman.”

“Right,” Bruce said.

“That is kind of you, Nightwing—but, well, who are they, exactly?” Diana asked gently.

She gestured vaguely to the group of vigilantes who were awkwardly shuffling behind Nightwing, who were all also dripping in pink demon blood.

“Don’t worry about it, we work with Batman,” drawled up the lithe, red-colored vigilante with red and gold on his suit. Red Robin, if Clark was remembering right.

“Don’t listen to the Replacement. They work with Batman,” corrected another one, who was wearing a red helmet and a charred leather jacket. “I only showed up because Daddy Warbucks over there owes me twenty dollars.” He held out his hand. “Time to pay up.”

“Red Hood!” Nightwing whined. “This isn’t the time!”

“Time is money, dickwad,” Red Hood growled. He looked back to Bruce. “Hand it over.”

Without a word, Bruce reached into his pocket and produced a neat twenty-dollar bill, which he passed over easily.

“Thanks, old man,” Red Hood said. “See you at Applebee’s.”

“Bye, Jason,” Bruce replied. “I love you.”

Red Hood threw up the middle finger as he sauntered from the room. When he was gone, Bruce turned back to the collection of children and settled his hands on his hips.

“I love all of you,” he said solemnly. “Thank you for coming to rescue me.”

“Looks like you didn’t really need us, after all,” Nightwing said. He gestured towards Batman’s utility belt. “You finally decided to tell them your secret identity, huh?”

“It was that or get eaten by demons,” Bruce admitted.

“Yeah, from personal experience, I would not recommend that,” muttered Red Robin.

“Well, you know what? Thank God! It’s about damn time!” Nightwing cheered. He ripped his domino mask free and tossed it against the wall, grinning wildly. Clark recognized him immediately as Dick Grayson, Bruce’s oldest and most flamboyant adopted son. “I’ve been waiting for this day since I was nine!”

“Nine?” Hal asked, aghast. He was still holding Barry’s hand.

“Long story,” Dick said, waving him off. “Circus. Dead parents. Batcave. A narrowly avoided homicide conviction. You know how it goes.”

From the look on Hal’s face, he clearly did not.

“I adopted Dick to keep him from killing the man who murdered his parents,” Bruce explained. “I did it for the gram, as the kids might say.”

“Ugh, Bruce!” moaned the vigilante in yellow armor as he palmed his forehead. Clark vaguely remember his name being Static or Signal, or something like that. “That’s not how you use that saying.”

“Thomas is correct, Father,” growled the shortest of the group—Robin, Clark could easily recognize, was Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne’s youngest. “Please refrain from attempting to use pop culture references and millennial slang. We have had this discussion before.”

“Not demure, not mindful,” said another girl. She punctuated her statement with a sad backflip.

“Yeah, what Cass said. That’s not demure or mindful, B-man,” agreed the purple girl again—Clark put together that she was Stephanie Brown, Bruce Wayne’s only other daughter, making the thin boy Tim Drake, and the one in armor Duke Thomas.

“You really need to crack open TikTok every once in a while,” Tim added. “You’re stuck in, like, 1939.”

Bruce reached out and ruffled Tim’s hair. “Sorry, birdie.”

Tim squawked and dove away, quickly turning to fix his hair and preen. Bruce turned to the rest of his kids and, seemingly out of nowhere, produced a clipboard.

“Well, since you’re all already suited up,” he said, “I have a few chores for you to do once we finish cleaning up here and get back to Gotham.” He looked down at the clipboard, squinting. “Who wants to volunteer to scrub the Riddler’s questions marks off of the bathroom at the GCPD?”

All of Bruce’s kids moaned in defeat.

And Clark? He just laughed at his luck and slipped his hand into Bruce’s back pocket.

And that ass? Definitely real.